Megan read to me tonight. "Go, Dog. Go!'" was the book. Megan said, "It's pretty long, Dad, but I can read it to you fast if you want." I said, "No, Sweetheart, don't read fast. Don't hurry. Please don't hurry. You don't have to grow up, I mean read fast."
We went fishing in Minnesota. Papa Mike, Michael, and I drove to our friend Paul's near Deluth. Paul lives on a big lake, complete with two docks, boats, a four-wheeler, two boxers (dogs, not pugilists, although that would've been cool too), a bonfire, remarkably bright stars, bunk beds, a slingshot, waders, and a garage full of fishing gear. And lots of beverages. Michael had a blast. So did the rest of us.
While we were at Paul's, Grandma and Meg dined at the American Girl Doll store. I have yet to visit one of these fabulous shops, thanks to Megan's grandmas, aunts, and Mommy who always take her without me. Michael and I enjoyed fishing so much we threw our lines in Prior Lake, also. Megan joined us and it was biblical, we landed so many largemouth bass. Megan used her new pink fishing gear. Michael was happy with a lightweight setup of mine, which I officially gave him along with all my tackle. Megan was quite the animated, cheerful fisher-woman. Michael was more focused and moody; dour one minute, elated the next, depending on his cast length and accuracy, the presence of any line tangles, and time elapsed between catches. I mostly helped Megan, who occasionally missed her cues; "Hey Sugar-Bean, I think you've got one," I'd say, as I saw flashes of her pink and purple bobber under the surface moving sharply one way or the other.
Michael noticed a condom dispenser on the wall of a truck stop bathroom during our trip. I watched as he studied it, bracing myself. I didn't interject awkwardly with an attempt to distract or draw him away. I assumed he was reading the descriptions of his four choices, each with its own receptacle for payment via quarters above an opening where the handy item, once purchased, can be retrieved. Thankfully, he didn't ask me what it was, not to mention inquire about brightly colored product slogans like 'extra safe' and 'maximum pleasure'. I would've only piqued his interest further with clumsily fibbed and fumbled answers. We'll have this discussion soon enough, I'm afraid. Megan's not the only one - alluded to above - growing up too fast.
Megan, despite her petiteness - and her immaculate cuteness, of course - can let loose terrific farts. I mean real doozies, the kind any man's man would proudly call his own. It's all fun and games now; I just hope she never does it at the prom, or on a date sometime. Wait a minute, I take that back....
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Dad Entry #126
We are nearing 500 posts on the blog. We've lost a little steam, perhaps, but Meg-Pie won't be one of those youngest-in-the-family siblings whose childhood goes undocumented, compared to the oldest kid at least, the firstborn for which the parents compile a tome of photos, notes, nail-clippings, and everything else, totally burning themselves out in the process. No, we are recording and saving roughly an equal amount for both kids, in case they need evidence someday of their lives as infants, toddlers, and little-school-goers. Of course, if they're like me, they'll only look at these pieces of their history every decade or so.
I have two great friends at work named Limei and Maggie. The three of us lunch together sometimes. They are both from China and can flawlessly switch between English and Mandarin. There are many other wonderful and impressive things about them. For example, they get my jokes. And, even better, they both think Megan is gorgeous. Of course they do; they're brilliant and beautiful, also. It takes one to know one. They were studying the picture I posted of Megan standing on the stool looking at books. Limei said, "She is so skinny!" and Maggie said, "She's going to be a supermodel, a European-looking supermodel." I didn't ask her if she meant pouty and sophisticated. Or ferocious. Or just skinny. Whatever. I'm only praying for 'happy and healthy' right now.
Regarding Megan's skinniness: I mentioned many posts ago that Megan has a Nelson butt. This is, in fact, a misnomer. A Nelson butt - a physical characteristic distinctly present in descendants of the Nelson family, Megan's paternal grandmother's line - is really the absence of a butt; it's a non-butt. Those of us afflicted might prefer the description 'flat butt' but I'm not sure that's accurate. Okay then. Glad we cleared that up.
I hope Michael doesn't read his own press because I'm going to say this about him: his origami is sometimes hurried and imprecise. I was tempted to say 'shoddy' even. His folds and creases can be soft and ever-so-slightly misaligned. For shame! Where's that obsessive-compulsiveness I see in most other members of our family?! Will it appear someday in a meticulously arranged sock drawer? Will it lead to umpteen unnecessary shoe and watch purchases? Will he worry all vacation that he left the garage door open? We'll see. It'll be something. And that's good; I think if you don't have a 'something' then you're not pushing yourself hard enough.
I have two great friends at work named Limei and Maggie. The three of us lunch together sometimes. They are both from China and can flawlessly switch between English and Mandarin. There are many other wonderful and impressive things about them. For example, they get my jokes. And, even better, they both think Megan is gorgeous. Of course they do; they're brilliant and beautiful, also. It takes one to know one. They were studying the picture I posted of Megan standing on the stool looking at books. Limei said, "She is so skinny!" and Maggie said, "She's going to be a supermodel, a European-looking supermodel." I didn't ask her if she meant pouty and sophisticated. Or ferocious. Or just skinny. Whatever. I'm only praying for 'happy and healthy' right now.
Regarding Megan's skinniness: I mentioned many posts ago that Megan has a Nelson butt. This is, in fact, a misnomer. A Nelson butt - a physical characteristic distinctly present in descendants of the Nelson family, Megan's paternal grandmother's line - is really the absence of a butt; it's a non-butt. Those of us afflicted might prefer the description 'flat butt' but I'm not sure that's accurate. Okay then. Glad we cleared that up.
I hope Michael doesn't read his own press because I'm going to say this about him: his origami is sometimes hurried and imprecise. I was tempted to say 'shoddy' even. His folds and creases can be soft and ever-so-slightly misaligned. For shame! Where's that obsessive-compulsiveness I see in most other members of our family?! Will it appear someday in a meticulously arranged sock drawer? Will it lead to umpteen unnecessary shoe and watch purchases? Will he worry all vacation that he left the garage door open? We'll see. It'll be something. And that's good; I think if you don't have a 'something' then you're not pushing yourself hard enough.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Some pics from Dad's phone
Siesta with Papa Mike
Meg, Godfather Corleone I mean Josiah, and Casey
We love used bookstores
Meg's 'favorite color is pink' and her 'favorite animal is a puppy'
Meg, Godfather Corleone I mean Josiah, and Casey
We love used bookstores
Meg's 'favorite color is pink' and her 'favorite animal is a puppy'
Monday, March 12, 2012
Dad Entry #125
Iowa State beat Connecticut. Then lost to Kentucky. Not a bad showing in the NCAA tourney, really. I washed Megan's Iowa State t-shirt with pride.
Michael's friend Nahum was with us yesterday. They get pretty wild together. We were at Dick's Sporting Goods when Megan asked me, "Dad, why do boys run around being crazy all the time?" I said, "Oh Honey, we could spend the rest of our lives talking about that."
The fart jokes are pretty nonstop lately. It's a running comedy, a stand-up script that never ends. There are songs. There are poems. And yes, there are celebrated moments of olfactory disruption, discomfort, disgust. Oh well, we'd have a pot / kettle scenario if I cracked down too much. And I suppose it's better than a lot of things we joke about in life.
We were reading Megan's 'National Geographic Kids' magazine last night. There was a story about a baby ostrich named Madoc who was abandoned by his mother. The article was really about how a toy ostrich, a stuffed animal, was set in his habitat and now he follows it and sleeps by it. It comforts him. Plus, it shows Madoc he's an ostrich; baby birds learn what kind of creature they are by watching family members. (That happens with many humans too, I'd say, for better or worse.) The story used the word 'orphan' which Megan was unfamiliar with. I said, "Well, it means without parents; it says little Madoc's mom left him." The enormity of this gripped Megan. She said, "Oh, he doesn't have a mommy?" I thought this would bum her out, sort of kill the mood of our pleasant bedtime reading, but Megan cheerfully continued, "Well, he'll get new parents at the zoo, right? He'll be happy there, maybe get into a new family, right Dad?" They were leading questions for sure, but I liked her positivity about it. Meg's an optimist! And I agreed with her. "Yes," I said, "Fuzzy little Madoc is probably growing up and doing super-great right now." Optimism, by the way, is strongly correlated with happiness in scientific research.
I mentioned art and creativity in my previous post. It's interesting to me; I believe it takes courage to pump out art. Or - not so positively phrased - it takes a sufficient lack of self-consciousness. Kids have such creativity and curiosity. Of course they do, you might say, they're new to a world overflowing with sensory delight. As a toddler, Michael would move his fingers and stare at his hand in wonderment. I would say, "I know, Buddy, it's fascinating!" So much to see and do, so much to try. Despite my own issues, I still view the world this way; there are many places I haven't been, and many things I haven't tried, scuba diving, oil painting, rock climbing, fly fishing, big game hunting, surfing, snowboarding, sailing. And many things I've done that I want my kids to try, snow skiing, water skiing, deep sea fishing, bird hunting, traveling, rafting, camping, hiking, golfing an immaculate course, shooting a 50 caliber rifle, piloting an airplane (I only played with the yoke and throttle briefly and had nothing to do with the real flying, the take-off and landing). Both lists go on if I do more thinking and research. My point? This creative-kid-mentality inspires me, I guess. They make things with gusto. I know some kids are shy and some adults are prolific generators of art and work and excitement. Are my ruminations here unsubstantive then, or pointless? No. I'm certain too many adults allow the scales to tip; their doubts outweigh the creative energy they once possessed. I hope this doesn't happen to Michael and Megan. And we leak something else, I'm afraid... although kids can be mean, I've observed mostly an undampened sense of compassion in the littlest of their kind (sadly it can be corrupted or tempered quickly in our world). But Megan and Michael both have reflexive moments of deep concern for each other (I know, crazy, right?) and even for strangers. For a time it seems innate. I love these pure moments. They're instinctual. I'll admit it happens less and less every year. M and m's compassion for each other, and strangers, is flagging. Ha. Actually, I hope only the rawness of it is less. I hope the empathy and awareness is still there; they've only introduced more thinking, since they can better assess severity and consequences. I read this quote over the weekend and it resonated hugely with me, "Self-actualizing people have a deep feeling of identification, sympathy, and affection for human beings in general. They feel kinship and connection, as if all people were members of a single family." So what does it all mean? Hell if I know; I'm rambling. Although, I will say one more thing: I believe it's related to this scrap of wisdom, "Anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will not enter it."
Michael's friend Nahum was with us yesterday. They get pretty wild together. We were at Dick's Sporting Goods when Megan asked me, "Dad, why do boys run around being crazy all the time?" I said, "Oh Honey, we could spend the rest of our lives talking about that."
The fart jokes are pretty nonstop lately. It's a running comedy, a stand-up script that never ends. There are songs. There are poems. And yes, there are celebrated moments of olfactory disruption, discomfort, disgust. Oh well, we'd have a pot / kettle scenario if I cracked down too much. And I suppose it's better than a lot of things we joke about in life.
We were reading Megan's 'National Geographic Kids' magazine last night. There was a story about a baby ostrich named Madoc who was abandoned by his mother. The article was really about how a toy ostrich, a stuffed animal, was set in his habitat and now he follows it and sleeps by it. It comforts him. Plus, it shows Madoc he's an ostrich; baby birds learn what kind of creature they are by watching family members. (That happens with many humans too, I'd say, for better or worse.) The story used the word 'orphan' which Megan was unfamiliar with. I said, "Well, it means without parents; it says little Madoc's mom left him." The enormity of this gripped Megan. She said, "Oh, he doesn't have a mommy?" I thought this would bum her out, sort of kill the mood of our pleasant bedtime reading, but Megan cheerfully continued, "Well, he'll get new parents at the zoo, right? He'll be happy there, maybe get into a new family, right Dad?" They were leading questions for sure, but I liked her positivity about it. Meg's an optimist! And I agreed with her. "Yes," I said, "Fuzzy little Madoc is probably growing up and doing super-great right now." Optimism, by the way, is strongly correlated with happiness in scientific research.
I mentioned art and creativity in my previous post. It's interesting to me; I believe it takes courage to pump out art. Or - not so positively phrased - it takes a sufficient lack of self-consciousness. Kids have such creativity and curiosity. Of course they do, you might say, they're new to a world overflowing with sensory delight. As a toddler, Michael would move his fingers and stare at his hand in wonderment. I would say, "I know, Buddy, it's fascinating!" So much to see and do, so much to try. Despite my own issues, I still view the world this way; there are many places I haven't been, and many things I haven't tried, scuba diving, oil painting, rock climbing, fly fishing, big game hunting, surfing, snowboarding, sailing. And many things I've done that I want my kids to try, snow skiing, water skiing, deep sea fishing, bird hunting, traveling, rafting, camping, hiking, golfing an immaculate course, shooting a 50 caliber rifle, piloting an airplane (I only played with the yoke and throttle briefly and had nothing to do with the real flying, the take-off and landing). Both lists go on if I do more thinking and research. My point? This creative-kid-mentality inspires me, I guess. They make things with gusto. I know some kids are shy and some adults are prolific generators of art and work and excitement. Are my ruminations here unsubstantive then, or pointless? No. I'm certain too many adults allow the scales to tip; their doubts outweigh the creative energy they once possessed. I hope this doesn't happen to Michael and Megan. And we leak something else, I'm afraid... although kids can be mean, I've observed mostly an undampened sense of compassion in the littlest of their kind (sadly it can be corrupted or tempered quickly in our world). But Megan and Michael both have reflexive moments of deep concern for each other (I know, crazy, right?) and even for strangers. For a time it seems innate. I love these pure moments. They're instinctual. I'll admit it happens less and less every year. M and m's compassion for each other, and strangers, is flagging. Ha. Actually, I hope only the rawness of it is less. I hope the empathy and awareness is still there; they've only introduced more thinking, since they can better assess severity and consequences. I read this quote over the weekend and it resonated hugely with me, "Self-actualizing people have a deep feeling of identification, sympathy, and affection for human beings in general. They feel kinship and connection, as if all people were members of a single family." So what does it all mean? Hell if I know; I'm rambling. Although, I will say one more thing: I believe it's related to this scrap of wisdom, "Anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will not enter it."
Dad Entry #124
The volume of artistic output from my kids is staggering. Thankfully paper is recyclable. If I saved everything, I'd be buried in it. So would you; we like to share! They have shows now about this very phenomenon, 'Hoarders' and 'Buried Alive'. It's awesome (my kids' art, not hoarding); the outpouring of creativity and expression is truly astounding. It does, however, put a strain on my capacity to judge what's keep-worthy. It's a daily struggle. Most of it gets pitched. Tossing one of Megan's drawings can be excruciating. Michael's origami cranes are difficult to let go. There are times I think of saving it all and buying a warehouse, a space to radiate young Michael and Megan vibes, for eternity, just by virtue of the multitudinous masterpieces stored there, works created - sometimes not very painstakingly - by my two favorite artists. The presence of tons, literally, of their beautiful and imaginative energy would just imbue the place with the same feeling I get when I hug them. What a pleasant thought. I'm going to shop for warehouses now.
The Cyclones are in the Big Dance! They square off against defending champion UConn in the first round. What's this got to do with M and m, you ask? Well, they both have Cyclone t-shirts for one thing.
I viewed a talk the other day (on a favorite website, ted.com) given by a passenger on the airplane that emergency landed in the Hudson River in 2009. He said it was terrifying, of course, when the pilot turned off both crippled engines and said only three words, "Brace for impact." He was pretty certain he wouldn't survive based on documentary footage of similar incidents. But a sense of sadness overtook the fear; he explained, "I didn't want to go. I loved my life. And this sadness really framed only one thought. I only wished for one thing. I only wished I could see my kids grow up. About a month later I was in a performance by my daughter, a first grader, not much artistic talent yet (audience laughter), and I'm balling, I'm crying like a little kid, and it made all the sense in the world to me, I realized at that point, by connecting those dots, I realized that the only thing that matters in my life is being a great dad. Above all, above all, the only goal I have in life is to be a good dad." Amen!
The Cyclones are in the Big Dance! They square off against defending champion UConn in the first round. What's this got to do with M and m, you ask? Well, they both have Cyclone t-shirts for one thing.
I viewed a talk the other day (on a favorite website, ted.com) given by a passenger on the airplane that emergency landed in the Hudson River in 2009. He said it was terrifying, of course, when the pilot turned off both crippled engines and said only three words, "Brace for impact." He was pretty certain he wouldn't survive based on documentary footage of similar incidents. But a sense of sadness overtook the fear; he explained, "I didn't want to go. I loved my life. And this sadness really framed only one thought. I only wished for one thing. I only wished I could see my kids grow up. About a month later I was in a performance by my daughter, a first grader, not much artistic talent yet (audience laughter), and I'm balling, I'm crying like a little kid, and it made all the sense in the world to me, I realized at that point, by connecting those dots, I realized that the only thing that matters in my life is being a great dad. Above all, above all, the only goal I have in life is to be a good dad." Amen!
Monday, March 05, 2012
Dad Entry #123
Megan has an interesting way of venting when other avenues, mostly crabbing and crying, are exhausted or inadequate. Crying is tiresome and ineffective - as a tool for protest that is - depending on audience and environment. And whining gets you only so far. (Farther with Daddy than Mommy, one might guess. And one would be correct. Go figure.) So how can a girl dissipate that lingering anger? Well, Megan retires to an art-friendly place to practice what I can only describe as a mild form of voodoo. She draws the frustrating person or situation and puts a big X through it. It's not exactly pins in dolls. So I'm not alarmed. Yet. Voodoo appears to be a Haitian thing, and I'm pretty sure Megan's never been there. I know my religious friends of a more orthodox persuasion are likely terrified of voodoo. I don't blame them. In fact, I just fearfully fidgeted a little. But mostly, so far, I'm pleased that Megan is a budding little artist. She has some real drawing talent.
The kids and I are looking for a house. My wish-list is simple; we need three bedrooms and we REALLY need a flat slab of concrete (some driveways work and some don't) for a basketball court. This area cannot be obstructed by trees or the home itself. We'll need arc on our shots and space for baseline maneuverability. Once we've identified the spot (heartlessly chopping down hundred-year-old trees if need be) we'll erect our hoop. Let me be clear: there are crappy hoops and there are good ones. Crappy hoops are flimsy and unsolid and, frankly, as disappointing to me as wet toast. The backboard should be glass that doesn't move AT ALL when the ball is put against it to bank in a shot. The rim is a different animal, of course; it should have a 'breakaway' mechanism for dunks (oh yes, there will be thunderous dunks, but only after lowering the hoop I should add in the spirit of full disclosure... until the kids are both older and taller than me). And our rim needs appropriate bounce too, or 'give', for the kind of shooting and rebounding rolls and touch and feel we're used to from the other hoops we compete under, in school gyms and so on. Hoops like this do NOT go on roofs or gutters (did I mention wet toast), they go in the ground via a big square post and it takes Paul Bunyan or a semi-truck to move them even an inch. And, as I noted above, it must be height-adjustable. I think that covers it. And I guess we'd like a house with indoor plumbing too.
The kids and I are looking for a house. My wish-list is simple; we need three bedrooms and we REALLY need a flat slab of concrete (some driveways work and some don't) for a basketball court. This area cannot be obstructed by trees or the home itself. We'll need arc on our shots and space for baseline maneuverability. Once we've identified the spot (heartlessly chopping down hundred-year-old trees if need be) we'll erect our hoop. Let me be clear: there are crappy hoops and there are good ones. Crappy hoops are flimsy and unsolid and, frankly, as disappointing to me as wet toast. The backboard should be glass that doesn't move AT ALL when the ball is put against it to bank in a shot. The rim is a different animal, of course; it should have a 'breakaway' mechanism for dunks (oh yes, there will be thunderous dunks, but only after lowering the hoop I should add in the spirit of full disclosure... until the kids are both older and taller than me). And our rim needs appropriate bounce too, or 'give', for the kind of shooting and rebounding rolls and touch and feel we're used to from the other hoops we compete under, in school gyms and so on. Hoops like this do NOT go on roofs or gutters (did I mention wet toast), they go in the ground via a big square post and it takes Paul Bunyan or a semi-truck to move them even an inch. And, as I noted above, it must be height-adjustable. I think that covers it. And I guess we'd like a house with indoor plumbing too.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Dad Entry #122
I make a bad-ass Hamburger Helper.
Megan gave me a pair of pajamas yesterday and said, "Donate 'em, Dad." I unwadded the clothing bundle she'd handed me. It was her 'Cuddle Monster' PJ's. "Too small now," she muttered and walked away. It was all very sudden. I guess I hoped she'd wear them forever.
Last night Michael and I landed, somehow, on the subject of 'World's Most Important Jobs.' The phrase itself sounds important; I think that's why I just capitalized it. Anyway, I said, "Well, you know what the most important job is, right?" I think I've mentioned this before because Michael answered quickly and correctly, "Being a great parent." I said, "Bullseye." Then I added, "How am I doin'?" Michael smiled and said, "You're exceeding state standards." Ha! I think he noticed we thought it cute (and maybe, admittedly, we thought it a little silly or nerdy also, but we love him for it and I can be nerdy with the best of 'em!) when he said the same thing in a discussion months ago about his standardized test results from school. He scored in the high 90's percentile - of course :) - in every subject or category. So we were lauding his academic focus and prowess, and he said, "Well, I am exceeding state standards." My son has a great sense of humor. And, uh, does anyone else think that's kind of a tongue-twister? Say 'I am exceeding state standards' 25 times. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.
We're off to the Quad Cities again this weekend to see Grandpa Byard. We'll stay at the same hotel we're pretty familiar with now. A Marriott. Since Dad and Papa Mike both have a zillion Marriott points we just pull in and stay for free. We love the place. It has a pool.
Megan gave me a pair of pajamas yesterday and said, "Donate 'em, Dad." I unwadded the clothing bundle she'd handed me. It was her 'Cuddle Monster' PJ's. "Too small now," she muttered and walked away. It was all very sudden. I guess I hoped she'd wear them forever.
Last night Michael and I landed, somehow, on the subject of 'World's Most Important Jobs.' The phrase itself sounds important; I think that's why I just capitalized it. Anyway, I said, "Well, you know what the most important job is, right?" I think I've mentioned this before because Michael answered quickly and correctly, "Being a great parent." I said, "Bullseye." Then I added, "How am I doin'?" Michael smiled and said, "You're exceeding state standards." Ha! I think he noticed we thought it cute (and maybe, admittedly, we thought it a little silly or nerdy also, but we love him for it and I can be nerdy with the best of 'em!) when he said the same thing in a discussion months ago about his standardized test results from school. He scored in the high 90's percentile - of course :) - in every subject or category. So we were lauding his academic focus and prowess, and he said, "Well, I am exceeding state standards." My son has a great sense of humor. And, uh, does anyone else think that's kind of a tongue-twister? Say 'I am exceeding state standards' 25 times. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.
We're off to the Quad Cities again this weekend to see Grandpa Byard. We'll stay at the same hotel we're pretty familiar with now. A Marriott. Since Dad and Papa Mike both have a zillion Marriott points we just pull in and stay for free. We love the place. It has a pool.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Slips of Paper
Often I write down the insanely adorable things the kids say, and then they float around on my desk for days, months, perhaps years. I just gathered up a few and am posting them so I can finally recycle the paper. Bear with me if I have posted these before.
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While playing doctor with Megan, I was the patient. She checked me head to toe and at one point, she lifted my shirt to check my heartbeat. Following is the ensuing (and confidence-destroying) conversation:
Megan: Is there a cat in the home?
me: No, why?
Megan: Aren't those cat scratches on your tummy?
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Megan: Did you know when you have lice, they like, build little stick houses and stores and a whole life in there?
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January 2011
Megan: I'm feeling tired today. Maybe Jesus went to a store. Maybe he went to a store and he's not watching us or controlling us. Maybe when he goes to a store, people have bad days.
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In response to the info that we can't always buy every single thing that we want and that our money is limited:
Michael: Okay, so like, how thick is our pile?
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June 17, 2010?
Michael: Mommy, this morning, Meggie and I played together.
me: Yes, I know, I heard you.
Michael: While we were playing, there were tears in my eyes.
me: Why?
Michael: I dunno. Tears of joy?
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June 13, 2010?
Michael: Am I ever in your dreams?
me: Sure. You're in my dreams a lot!
Michael: REALLY?!
me: Well, I think about you all the time, so it only makes sense that you'd show up in my dreams.
Michael: Okay. This is going to sound bad. but I don't really think about you very much.
me: Well, I'm a mom and it's my JOB to think about you. You're a kid – your job is learning and growing, not thinking about your mom.
Michael: So I don't ever really dream about you, cause I don't really think about you.
me: Well, I know you love me, so it's okay, buddy. Don't sweat it.
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February 2012
Megan: It would be wierd to be you.
me: It would be wierd to be you.
Megan: Oh, mom. You would LOVE being me.
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-------
While playing doctor with Megan, I was the patient. She checked me head to toe and at one point, she lifted my shirt to check my heartbeat. Following is the ensuing (and confidence-destroying) conversation:
Megan: Is there a cat in the home?
me: No, why?
Megan: Aren't those cat scratches on your tummy?
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Megan: Did you know when you have lice, they like, build little stick houses and stores and a whole life in there?
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January 2011
Megan: I'm feeling tired today. Maybe Jesus went to a store. Maybe he went to a store and he's not watching us or controlling us. Maybe when he goes to a store, people have bad days.
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In response to the info that we can't always buy every single thing that we want and that our money is limited:
Michael: Okay, so like, how thick is our pile?
---------
June 17, 2010?
Michael: Mommy, this morning, Meggie and I played together.
me: Yes, I know, I heard you.
Michael: While we were playing, there were tears in my eyes.
me: Why?
Michael: I dunno. Tears of joy?
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June 13, 2010?
Michael: Am I ever in your dreams?
me: Sure. You're in my dreams a lot!
Michael: REALLY?!
me: Well, I think about you all the time, so it only makes sense that you'd show up in my dreams.
Michael: Okay. This is going to sound bad. but I don't really think about you very much.
me: Well, I'm a mom and it's my JOB to think about you. You're a kid – your job is learning and growing, not thinking about your mom.
Michael: So I don't ever really dream about you, cause I don't really think about you.
me: Well, I know you love me, so it's okay, buddy. Don't sweat it.
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February 2012
Megan: It would be wierd to be you.
me: It would be wierd to be you.
Megan: Oh, mom. You would LOVE being me.
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Wednesday, February 08, 2012
Dad Entry #121
Megan is a note-writer. With impressive range. Whether happy or sad, to praise or argue, lavish love or sling venom, she puts it all in letters now. I can sense from non-verbal cues if she's handing me fan- or hate mail, before I've opened the envelope or unfolded the paper. For example, over the weekend I received an 'I LOVE MI DODDY' note from a very smiley and bouncy deliverer. But when I denied Megan a heavy, slippery glass cup in favor of a non-breakable plastic one, I was given the following without eye contact or a smile: 'DER DADDY, WI CAT I YOOS THI GLAS IT IS JUST A GLAS, FROM MEGAN.' I should mention this was written on a store-bought Christmas card with the words "Peace On Earth" over a beautiful dove. Someday we'll discuss the finer point of coordination between a card's printing and what's later hand-written and personalized; I hear it's tacky to scribble 'Happy Birthday' under an embossed 'Thank You'. Megan knows this but will express, on an otherwise happy card, a discrepant complaint or accusation. Mommy and Daddy both get stuff like, 'WI AR YOU BIN MIN' on pink paper, maybe with a butterfly sticker that seems to clash with the theme of us being 'mean'. The good news is, you can get cards at the dollar store. Lots of them. Cheap. So on some level, Sara and I are just happy Megan keeps practicing her writing.
Megan's favorite breakfast is anything with frosting on it.
We went through seven boxes of Kleenex over the weekend. Maybe six. At least five! I'm certain there were four empty boxes in the recycling bag this morning, and a box in the car. And I wasn't using them. The kids have colds.
Megan's a lip-smacker when she sleeps. I stay with her after the bedtime ritual sometimes, while she drifts off. Heaven. I'll be reading via the kindle app on my phone when a small racket starts up next to me, like a beatboxer, or a taste-tester, or a ravenous person without manners. She might carry on for 30 seconds. Megan doesn't snore very often though; she's a stark underachiever compared to family standouts like Uncle Bill. But it's pretty cute when she gives it a try, when she's out cold and saws a log, even if quietly.
I told Megan her birth story the other night, one of her favorite bedtime yarns. I was weaving the usual, with minor embellishments; this one doesn't require any Hollywood-sensationalism to keep her rapt. (Although, Meg's a great story-listener, even if I lay an egg.) So eventually Megan said, "Did you forget about the pan?" I knew what she meant but played dumb. She clarified, "You know, the bedpan, the one Mommy threw up in." I said, "Oh, yeah, I forgot." Megan continued, "Mommy threw up because she saw me and I wasn't Rachel." I smiled - it was a funny thing to hear - but then I assured Meg she wasn't the cause, or at least that wasn't the cause; Mommy got sick because there was too much pressure on her organs. But Meg continued cheerfully, "No, you were gonna name me Rachel or Megan, you hadn't decided, I know it was hard." Yes Honey, it was SO hard, picking Megan or Rachel, and I had to do it I remember, by myself, the toughest part, while Mommy just laid there and gave birth. Seriously though, I realized she was just spicing up her birth story. (I do the same. They named the nursery after me at St. Luke's in Davenport. And erected a statue.) So Megan knows - because we tell her, probably too much - we were nothing but sky-high super-thrilled when she was born. As for the 'pan', well, I was hoping to banish that to forgotten history; it just seems unpleasant and unimportant. But Megan likes this story, her story, and apparently nothing about it is unimportant or trivial. I agree! The pan was actually plastic and kidney shaped; I'm not sure it's even called a bedpan? Would one of you nurses enlighten us, please?
Megan's favorite breakfast is anything with frosting on it.
We went through seven boxes of Kleenex over the weekend. Maybe six. At least five! I'm certain there were four empty boxes in the recycling bag this morning, and a box in the car. And I wasn't using them. The kids have colds.
Megan's a lip-smacker when she sleeps. I stay with her after the bedtime ritual sometimes, while she drifts off. Heaven. I'll be reading via the kindle app on my phone when a small racket starts up next to me, like a beatboxer, or a taste-tester, or a ravenous person without manners. She might carry on for 30 seconds. Megan doesn't snore very often though; she's a stark underachiever compared to family standouts like Uncle Bill. But it's pretty cute when she gives it a try, when she's out cold and saws a log, even if quietly.
I told Megan her birth story the other night, one of her favorite bedtime yarns. I was weaving the usual, with minor embellishments; this one doesn't require any Hollywood-sensationalism to keep her rapt. (Although, Meg's a great story-listener, even if I lay an egg.) So eventually Megan said, "Did you forget about the pan?" I knew what she meant but played dumb. She clarified, "You know, the bedpan, the one Mommy threw up in." I said, "Oh, yeah, I forgot." Megan continued, "Mommy threw up because she saw me and I wasn't Rachel." I smiled - it was a funny thing to hear - but then I assured Meg she wasn't the cause, or at least that wasn't the cause; Mommy got sick because there was too much pressure on her organs. But Meg continued cheerfully, "No, you were gonna name me Rachel or Megan, you hadn't decided, I know it was hard." Yes Honey, it was SO hard, picking Megan or Rachel, and I had to do it I remember, by myself, the toughest part, while Mommy just laid there and gave birth. Seriously though, I realized she was just spicing up her birth story. (I do the same. They named the nursery after me at St. Luke's in Davenport. And erected a statue.) So Megan knows - because we tell her, probably too much - we were nothing but sky-high super-thrilled when she was born. As for the 'pan', well, I was hoping to banish that to forgotten history; it just seems unpleasant and unimportant. But Megan likes this story, her story, and apparently nothing about it is unimportant or trivial. I agree! The pan was actually plastic and kidney shaped; I'm not sure it's even called a bedpan? Would one of you nurses enlighten us, please?
Monday, February 06, 2012
Bedtime Anecdotes
1
My entire family has been hit with a plague. It is dragging on and on...and dragging our spirits down and down. Tonight as Meg was snuggling down for sleep, she was coughing again. I suggested turning on the humidifier and getting her some medicine. She nearly had a heart attack remembering the cough syrup I gave her last time...apparently the off-brand isn't nearly as tasty. As I walked out the door to fetch the meds, she wailed, "No, mommy! I would much rather be miserable coughing all night!"
2
I was telling Megan what a blessing she was. She said, "God gave us to each other," all blissfully. I agreed and told her that, "When he looked at you and decided to send you to me, he made me the luckiest mommy ever." She immediately looked at me like I was an insane person and replied, "Mom. That's not really true. MARY is the luckiest mommy in the world. Mary is luckiest mommy in HISTORY." I stand corrected, Meg.
My entire family has been hit with a plague. It is dragging on and on...and dragging our spirits down and down. Tonight as Meg was snuggling down for sleep, she was coughing again. I suggested turning on the humidifier and getting her some medicine. She nearly had a heart attack remembering the cough syrup I gave her last time...apparently the off-brand isn't nearly as tasty. As I walked out the door to fetch the meds, she wailed, "No, mommy! I would much rather be miserable coughing all night!"
2
I was telling Megan what a blessing she was. She said, "God gave us to each other," all blissfully. I agreed and told her that, "When he looked at you and decided to send you to me, he made me the luckiest mommy ever." She immediately looked at me like I was an insane person and replied, "Mom. That's not really true. MARY is the luckiest mommy in the world. Mary is luckiest mommy in HISTORY." I stand corrected, Meg.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Dad Entry #120
I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, my clothes were washed without much effort on my part. At a maximum, I delivered them to a closet or placed them in a hamper, I don't recall specifics. Maybe I threw strikes with socks, and sank buzzer-beaters with balled-up jeans. But that was it, the extent of my laundry duties. Although, there were rules; I'm pretty sure leaving items inside-out and tossed about my room was frowned upon. And I think my washing-person (thanks, Mom) appreciated a heads-up if things were caked with mud or permanent markered or somehow in tatters. But these things, like so many others, were noticed and handled with or without any awareness or courtesy from me. Sure, I was yelled at for the unexpected destruction of new or nice outfits. Otherwise, my dirty clothes always quietly reappeared, fluffed and fresh and delightfully scented, as if by magic. At some age I was trusted with the tiny follow-up task of putting my clothes away, jamming them into drawers, from a neatly folded stack left on the bed. But never once did I have to repeatedly wear dirty clothes (despite a desire to do so, perhaps); never once was this important, taken-for-granted service withheld. And now I'm certain it wasn't magic, because I'm the magician. The circle of life. Illustrated by laundry. As I've mentioned before, it's heartwarming, even if tedious, to fold a pile of princess socks, undies with rainbows and butterflies, delicates with kittens and bows. As long I fold laundry while watching Sportscenter, or some hunting show, I can admit, appreciate, and write about the smile this puts on my face.
Michael and I are taking archery together. We both hit multiple bulls-eyes last week. We're proud. We're improving, and our instructors are Olympic caliber shooters. For real; I'm not kidding for once. We use recurve bows; of course the one I use is much larger, and my arrows are longer, than Michael's. They provide the gear. It's great; I'm happy and grateful Sara found the course in the Palatine Park District catalog and signed us up. I suffer a bit of a dilemma when shooting a bow, just as with a shotgun, since I'm right-handed but left eye dominant. Michael doesn't have this excuse :) I think it helped me in baseball, however, as a righty hitter. So go the pros and cons of our God-given physicalities, each unique, and if you think about it, miraculous. Like I tell my kids: you are the technology. The standard, the amazing thing. Not that Motorola smartphone you're playing games on, not your Xoom tablet, your DS, your Wii, the television, the car, the Space Shuttle even... YOU! The best and brightest engineers can't create it, or recreate it, what God has given you. For free! Use it! Enjoy it. And please take care of it, for your own sake, and, I'd humbly suggest, to show your gratitude.
Michael and I are taking archery together. We both hit multiple bulls-eyes last week. We're proud. We're improving, and our instructors are Olympic caliber shooters. For real; I'm not kidding for once. We use recurve bows; of course the one I use is much larger, and my arrows are longer, than Michael's. They provide the gear. It's great; I'm happy and grateful Sara found the course in the Palatine Park District catalog and signed us up. I suffer a bit of a dilemma when shooting a bow, just as with a shotgun, since I'm right-handed but left eye dominant. Michael doesn't have this excuse :) I think it helped me in baseball, however, as a righty hitter. So go the pros and cons of our God-given physicalities, each unique, and if you think about it, miraculous. Like I tell my kids: you are the technology. The standard, the amazing thing. Not that Motorola smartphone you're playing games on, not your Xoom tablet, your DS, your Wii, the television, the car, the Space Shuttle even... YOU! The best and brightest engineers can't create it, or recreate it, what God has given you. For free! Use it! Enjoy it. And please take care of it, for your own sake, and, I'd humbly suggest, to show your gratitude.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Dad Entry #119
I was washing Meg's hair in the bath yesterday when she said, "Watch out, I'm about to fart!" Sure enough, her warning was abruptly followed by a water-muffled – but very recognizable! – sound, and then a rising formation of bubbles. Thankfully, the passion fruit shampoo was strongly scented. There was a momentary battle for aromatic supremacy, if you will, in my nostrils. But Megan's fumes aren't very noxious. Of course not. Michael's, however, are downright peel-the-paint deadly. He could win contests. He's right up there with Uncle Scott when it comes to abilities of this sort. Uncle Scott... to be honest, it's a painful memory. He locked the windows of his Jeep Cherokee onetime and then dropped a chemical weapon that nearly killed his passengers, me and Papa Mike. I recall writhing and clawing at the window controls to no avail. The black curtain was closing (mercifully, I was blacking-out) but Papa Mike’s cacophonous hacking and gagging jarred me awake again. Neither of us were granted trauma-induced amnesia, which is tragic, but it's why we can corroborate, to this day, the claim that Uncle Scott is in a league of his own. He has no peers. Yeah, on second thought, I can't put Michael at the same potency level as Scott. Michael's young, he hasn't mastered the art yet, tinkered with every type of food and beer; he might describe himself as just a Padawan. But some day.... God help us if we end up with two Jedi's in the family. And during an otherwise pleasant moment – and in a poorly ventilated area – they decide to do battle.
Megan is good at spilling things.
We have fashion emergencies occasionally when Daddy's place doesn't have enough pants, or jeans, or shirts or skirts or leggings or headbands or blouses or sweaters or hose choices, et cetera, et cetera. And they’re four-alarmers according to Meg, dire emergencies. Truthfully, I agree and sympathize. Really, I do. I don't like having mismatching or limited clothing choices either. Mommy and I do our best to make sure this happens rarely.
Megan has my eyebrows. According to Sara, anyway. I was smiling when Sara pointed this out – I'm proud of everything I share with Megan – but then I realized it wasn't a happy announcement. I get it; I understand why it's bad news. Fast-growing, thick, bushy, coarse, unruly, gnarly, dark eyebrows like mine aren't ideal on a beautiful little female face. Fine. Megan might rather have a pair with smaller footprints, and of a thinner, lighter composition. She might prefer eyebrows she won't have to painfully pluck and groom… forever. Sorry, Meg. But I think they're perfect. I think YOU are perfect.
On Friday night, we went to the Palatine High School girls basketball game. Michael won tickets as part of a reading program at Sanborn. It was great; the kids were excited by it all, the players and cheerleaders, the exuberant announcer and even louder buzzer!! There were flag-twirlers and dancers and a spirited halftime show. Sara asked Megan, "Hey Sugar-Bean, would you rather be a basketball player or a cheerleader?" Megan said, "Neither, I wanna be a veterinarian." Megan's a big-picture gal.
Megan is good at spilling things.
We have fashion emergencies occasionally when Daddy's place doesn't have enough pants, or jeans, or shirts or skirts or leggings or headbands or blouses or sweaters or hose choices, et cetera, et cetera. And they’re four-alarmers according to Meg, dire emergencies. Truthfully, I agree and sympathize. Really, I do. I don't like having mismatching or limited clothing choices either. Mommy and I do our best to make sure this happens rarely.
Megan has my eyebrows. According to Sara, anyway. I was smiling when Sara pointed this out – I'm proud of everything I share with Megan – but then I realized it wasn't a happy announcement. I get it; I understand why it's bad news. Fast-growing, thick, bushy, coarse, unruly, gnarly, dark eyebrows like mine aren't ideal on a beautiful little female face. Fine. Megan might rather have a pair with smaller footprints, and of a thinner, lighter composition. She might prefer eyebrows she won't have to painfully pluck and groom… forever. Sorry, Meg. But I think they're perfect. I think YOU are perfect.
On Friday night, we went to the Palatine High School girls basketball game. Michael won tickets as part of a reading program at Sanborn. It was great; the kids were excited by it all, the players and cheerleaders, the exuberant announcer and even louder buzzer!! There were flag-twirlers and dancers and a spirited halftime show. Sara asked Megan, "Hey Sugar-Bean, would you rather be a basketball player or a cheerleader?" Megan said, "Neither, I wanna be a veterinarian." Megan's a big-picture gal.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
A New Cousin! Andrew Squish-A-Lish
The squooshiest baby that ever was! The kids were thrilled to be there to meet their new cousin, Andrew Jonathan, on January 12th. Megan was flagrantly smitten – Michael was a little more secretive about it. Megan is now an expert on all things childbirth (so might I recommend not bringing it up) and plotted ways to take Andrew home with her. I did not hesitate to foil her big plans. Now I am itching to see him again and kinda wish we had sneaked him out the door with us.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Dad Entry #118
Last night Megan said, "Michael doesn't like me. He doesn't like me even a little bit." This wasn't a shocking charge by any means; the kids spar a lot and Michael often appears indifferent or annoyed at all-things-Megan. But, of course, Megan is a huge planet in Michael's universe. Michael loves her; he's always aware of her - whether he lets on or not - and I've seen him adamantly defend her if things approach any seriousness with others. (This is good.) So I tried to allegorize Michael's true feelings by telling Meg, "Sweetheart, if you moved to Africa, Michael would miss you terribly. He would cry." Megan thought for a moment and said, "Yeah, but do you know who would cry the most?" I answered, very theatrically (and truthfully!), "Me, of course! I would cry the most! I would cry like a big fat humongous baby!" Megan said, "No, you would stop before Mommy. You would stop crying after, like, a lot of days but Mommy would cry everyday forever." It was a crazy scenario to consider, her moving to Africa, but all the crying it would cause seemed to cheer Megan up.
I visited Grandpa Bev in Clearwater over the weekend. Awesome. She is so awesome. Uncle Wayne is too, and Ursula, and Dick. Really, really enjoyed a night out with Wayne. A remarkable guy, of course. We covered a lot of ground discussing philosophy, spirituality, marriage, the family. We drank a lot. And we had an altercation. Wayne, on some level, seems to attract them. He's an alpha in the purest sense. Pretty fearless. (Like Papa Mike, I would say.) Some guy mouthed off to him at the bar and I new instantly it would escalate. Wayne was right; the guy needed to be challenged, and Wayne - who has taken and given more beatings than I ever will probably - did a fine job. The guy was threatening to split Wayne's head open or some nonsense, when the guy's friends pulled him away. I was taller and younger - believe it or not - than anyone immediately involved, and these things are almost always all talk nowadays, so I just stood by Wayne and was okay with it all. It did, however, raise my blood pressure and Wayne, as cool as ever, poked a little fun at me afterward, for my shifting eyes and quicker speech, even after things had abated. It makes we wonder how/when/why/where Michael will encounter and participate in these kind of male rituals, these conflicts. Every man gets into it with other guys, and takes and gives some abuse, whether physical or emotional, I don't think it matters; it's a fight. Is it better or worse that we live in such a litigious society? You could argue - because just punching someone can lead to so much legal trouble - we're less inclined to go that route. Perhaps we're more policed, as well, in the neighborhoods I go, at least, on the northside of Chicago. Southside = different story. But I don't see many fights. Although you hear more about guns, these days, in clubs and bars. I would guess Michael will be more of a big-picture peacemaker like me, and maybe a little less in-the-moment like Uncle Wayne and Papa Mike. Honestly, I don't know which 'way' I'd prefer he be; I don't know which way anyone is, for sure. I think it's silly to absolutely label people as one type or another. I know this, however; I hope Micheal's big, strong, quick, and capable, regardless what his methods are for defusing or resolving these situations.
Michael possesses a nice equanimity. And it's nice for him! Not just for his family, his friends, and everyone else he encounters. It's awkward for others when a person has anxiety or anger or attention or arrogance issues, sure, (let's call them 'self-control issues') but it's the perpetrator who suffers most, obviously, in the long run, if not immediately. I really admire Michael's disposition, his temperament, his presence. It's more my style. Is it stupid for me to say that, since I'm his father? Maybe not, I mentioned some other guys in his family above. And I admire many things about them, too.
I visited Grandpa Bev in Clearwater over the weekend. Awesome. She is so awesome. Uncle Wayne is too, and Ursula, and Dick. Really, really enjoyed a night out with Wayne. A remarkable guy, of course. We covered a lot of ground discussing philosophy, spirituality, marriage, the family. We drank a lot. And we had an altercation. Wayne, on some level, seems to attract them. He's an alpha in the purest sense. Pretty fearless. (Like Papa Mike, I would say.) Some guy mouthed off to him at the bar and I new instantly it would escalate. Wayne was right; the guy needed to be challenged, and Wayne - who has taken and given more beatings than I ever will probably - did a fine job. The guy was threatening to split Wayne's head open or some nonsense, when the guy's friends pulled him away. I was taller and younger - believe it or not - than anyone immediately involved, and these things are almost always all talk nowadays, so I just stood by Wayne and was okay with it all. It did, however, raise my blood pressure and Wayne, as cool as ever, poked a little fun at me afterward, for my shifting eyes and quicker speech, even after things had abated. It makes we wonder how/when/why/where Michael will encounter and participate in these kind of male rituals, these conflicts. Every man gets into it with other guys, and takes and gives some abuse, whether physical or emotional, I don't think it matters; it's a fight. Is it better or worse that we live in such a litigious society? You could argue - because just punching someone can lead to so much legal trouble - we're less inclined to go that route. Perhaps we're more policed, as well, in the neighborhoods I go, at least, on the northside of Chicago. Southside = different story. But I don't see many fights. Although you hear more about guns, these days, in clubs and bars. I would guess Michael will be more of a big-picture peacemaker like me, and maybe a little less in-the-moment like Uncle Wayne and Papa Mike. Honestly, I don't know which 'way' I'd prefer he be; I don't know which way anyone is, for sure. I think it's silly to absolutely label people as one type or another. I know this, however; I hope Micheal's big, strong, quick, and capable, regardless what his methods are for defusing or resolving these situations.
Michael possesses a nice equanimity. And it's nice for him! Not just for his family, his friends, and everyone else he encounters. It's awkward for others when a person has anxiety or anger or attention or arrogance issues, sure, (let's call them 'self-control issues') but it's the perpetrator who suffers most, obviously, in the long run, if not immediately. I really admire Michael's disposition, his temperament, his presence. It's more my style. Is it stupid for me to say that, since I'm his father? Maybe not, I mentioned some other guys in his family above. And I admire many things about them, too.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Dad Entry #117
This comment is perhaps random, silly, and uninteresting (gee, maybe I should stop there) but the concept of personal preference fascinates me. It truly differentiates us all. What does it reveal? I don't know. Gotta ask someone like Sigmund Freud, I guess. Although, on second thought, I'd prefer we look through the lens of a less, well, honest-but-awkward psychoanalyst. Anyway, one of my favorite scenes is the quick-mart / gas station stop on a roadtrip with the kids. We did this a few times during holiday travels. "Pick a snack," I say. Vegas won't even put odds on Megan's choice; chocolate is a shoo-in. She will, however, select a granola bar if I nix the candy. And bottled water is almost certainly her drink. A creature of habit. Michael's less predicable (in this meaningless scenario, at least). His instant preoccupation is with beverages (uh-oh), not candy. He browses the glass-doored coolers first. Or he'll ask for a slurpee or slushy before we even step inside. And he prefers salty snacks to sugary ones. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?! Nothing, really, it's just something else to drone on about. Although, the following question is important, and very mysterious: How is it my kids don't love cheese curls? I mean love, as in LOVE, as in preferred over all else. Because that's the way I love cheese curls. That's the aisle I run to. Sure, my kids enjoy Cheetos. But not with any fervor! Not with insatiable lust! So why is that? Cheese curls are hands down the best snack ever invented - the inventor, without question, deserves a Nobel or knighthood or sainthood or something - and the strength with which I hold this conviction, the depth with which it's ingrained in my bones and being, the quenchlessness of my cravings... it must be hereditary, right? It must be present somewhere on that crazy helix, the color-coded toylike thing scientists say is my DNA. RIGHT?! So wouldn't it have passed to my children? I guess not. Maybe it's a recessive gene. Oh, so I can blame it on Sara? Way to go, Mommy; you ruined it for them.
Back in DE#116 (my new super-creative abbreviation scheme), I mentioned that my sweet Meg-Pie voiced her aversion to sweating, or, presumably, activities that induce this vexing, discomforting, annoying, chafing - horrible! - response to physical activity and effort. (I like to sweat, and so do millions of other people, but this isn't about us, this is about the cutest girl on the planet.) So anyway, I want to revisit this, and assure you Megan's not exhibiting any kind or imperious hyper-feminity. She's no tom-boy; but she's no diva, either. She's Megan. She still gets food on her face. And leaves it there. In public, even. And it's no bizarre fashion statement, ala Gaga, or goth or grunge. And Megan gets the worst chapped lips EVER! Again, not very womanish. But she does like fancy outfits, not-very-subtle ensembles with scarves and hairbands and gaudy accessories. At church, especially, she is always fabulously dressed and shod, and sometimes freshly mani-ed and pedi-ed (but never spray-tanned, thank God). And Megan likes to nest and organize too; there's a real streak of nurturer in there (a trait often considered more feminine than otherwise). But she'll roughhouse and wrestle with Michael and me.... So there you go, as with all of us - especially women! - Megan is too complex to characterize.
Back in DE#116 (my new super-creative abbreviation scheme), I mentioned that my sweet Meg-Pie voiced her aversion to sweating, or, presumably, activities that induce this vexing, discomforting, annoying, chafing - horrible! - response to physical activity and effort. (I like to sweat, and so do millions of other people, but this isn't about us, this is about the cutest girl on the planet.) So anyway, I want to revisit this, and assure you Megan's not exhibiting any kind or imperious hyper-feminity. She's no tom-boy; but she's no diva, either. She's Megan. She still gets food on her face. And leaves it there. In public, even. And it's no bizarre fashion statement, ala Gaga, or goth or grunge. And Megan gets the worst chapped lips EVER! Again, not very womanish. But she does like fancy outfits, not-very-subtle ensembles with scarves and hairbands and gaudy accessories. At church, especially, she is always fabulously dressed and shod, and sometimes freshly mani-ed and pedi-ed (but never spray-tanned, thank God). And Megan likes to nest and organize too; there's a real streak of nurturer in there (a trait often considered more feminine than otherwise). But she'll roughhouse and wrestle with Michael and me.... So there you go, as with all of us - especially women! - Megan is too complex to characterize.
Friday, January 06, 2012
Dan Entry #116
Michael was pretty great over Christmas. I don't think it's overstate-able. I'm not exaggerating when I say he was perfectly fun, polite, positive, active, thoughtful, grateful... in a word, awesome. It's not everyday a man feels pride when compared to an 8-year-old, but I'm proud when my mom / Grandma Barb says, "He's like you, Dan." We both have flaws, but I know my heart's big and in the right place, and his is too. He has such a refreshingly sanguine disposition. I did have a thought regarding Christmas, though.... does Megan deserve some credit for this rose-colored recollection of Michael? Does an angel look more like an angel next to someone who is not? My sweetheart wasn't entirely sweet. Overall, she was a jewel - of course - but she had some all-too-public issues with crabbiness and gift-receiving-etiquette-and-gratitude. It's true, we had one of those moments. She didn't like one of her presents and protested. She didn't hold back much. It was a bit shocking. I had to pick my jaw off the floor and whisk her away for a brusque one-way conversation. She was exhausted, and over-excited, sure, but those excuses are inadequate. I would still, however, summarize Christmas 2011 this way: my kids were terrific and I'm very grateful for them and we had a fantastic holiday. But... was I rooting for some random rotten kid to throw a tantrum in church while Megan sat there beautifully quiet and cherublike? Absolutely! And did I feel bad when Megan saw her presents from Santa and blurted, "He didn't bring me coal!" No! I did not! Megan knew she'd screwed up the night before - and she was scolded for it - despite some continued defiance. She's a stubborn little thing. I hope that strength is always focused in a positive direction. If so, it will serve her well.
Megan said, "Daddy, you make the best frozen waffles!" Talk about proud moments in my life. My cooking skills are improving - with recipes that don't involve anything frozen - but this dubious praise reminded me I'm still no Jamie Oliver.
We were talking about the kids' organized activities the other day. I asked Megan if she wants to play T-ball again. She said, "No." I said, "Why not?" She said, "I tried it and I didn't like it." I said, "But it looked like you enjoyed it, Honey." She said, "Yes, but I remember that time I sweated." Oh dear....
I am struggling a little now with having one of each, a son and a daughter, a boy and a girl. I love it - pretty sure that's obvious - but it presents challenges. Michael doesn't like Barbies; Megan doesn't love open gym. Megan wants a bedtime story about puppies; Michael wants one about pirates. And so on. Megan's not a fan of Clone Wars; Michael doesn't like Mickey Mouse. (I think it's cute Meg still likes Mickey's Playhouse; probably because it's interactive and musical.) And apparently Megan doesn't like to sweat.
Yesterday, Michael called Megan 'an insignificant little child'. Yikes. So Megan called Michael 'dumb'. Simple, but effective. It was a tough bout to score, but I ruled it a draw. As usual, I was impressed with Michael's use of vocabulary. And he wields condescension with a surgeon's precision. His word-choice was notable, but so was his delivery, equal parts contentious and dismissive. Well done. As for Megan's response, upon further examination I found it less simple than at first glance. Her uncaring, cheerful aloofness was perhaps very calculated, and strenuously maintained, despite the sting of Michael's opening volley. See, Megan is not one to remain composed during emotional moments without effort. And Megan's cuter than a box full of kittens. There's that. So I deemed the performances of both combatants exceptional. Therefore, a draw.
Megan said, "Daddy, you make the best frozen waffles!" Talk about proud moments in my life. My cooking skills are improving - with recipes that don't involve anything frozen - but this dubious praise reminded me I'm still no Jamie Oliver.
We were talking about the kids' organized activities the other day. I asked Megan if she wants to play T-ball again. She said, "No." I said, "Why not?" She said, "I tried it and I didn't like it." I said, "But it looked like you enjoyed it, Honey." She said, "Yes, but I remember that time I sweated." Oh dear....
I am struggling a little now with having one of each, a son and a daughter, a boy and a girl. I love it - pretty sure that's obvious - but it presents challenges. Michael doesn't like Barbies; Megan doesn't love open gym. Megan wants a bedtime story about puppies; Michael wants one about pirates. And so on. Megan's not a fan of Clone Wars; Michael doesn't like Mickey Mouse. (I think it's cute Meg still likes Mickey's Playhouse; probably because it's interactive and musical.) And apparently Megan doesn't like to sweat.
Yesterday, Michael called Megan 'an insignificant little child'. Yikes. So Megan called Michael 'dumb'. Simple, but effective. It was a tough bout to score, but I ruled it a draw. As usual, I was impressed with Michael's use of vocabulary. And he wields condescension with a surgeon's precision. His word-choice was notable, but so was his delivery, equal parts contentious and dismissive. Well done. As for Megan's response, upon further examination I found it less simple than at first glance. Her uncaring, cheerful aloofness was perhaps very calculated, and strenuously maintained, despite the sting of Michael's opening volley. See, Megan is not one to remain composed during emotional moments without effort. And Megan's cuter than a box full of kittens. There's that. So I deemed the performances of both combatants exceptional. Therefore, a draw.
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